


min modsefa mid mereflode hweorfeð wide eorþan sceatas

by izzybeth



Series: mæg ic be me sylfum soðgied wrecan [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Athelwynne, Canon-Typical Violence, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Gen, Medieval Christianity, Norse Mythology - Freeform, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rule 63, Women Being Awesome, cis-swap, girl!Athelstan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-01
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6262588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybeth/pseuds/izzybeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She sits in this holy place and wonders, what is she now?</p>
            </blockquote>





	min modsefa mid mereflode hweorfeð wide eorþan sceatas

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote _[ic feor heonan elþeodigra eard gesece](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093152)_ for Yuletide 2013, and a few people asked if I would write a part two. Here it is.
> 
> The title, very loosely translated, is something like "my spirit with the sea, it soars widely to the world's edges". Taken from lines 59-61 of The Seafarer because I love that poem like burning.
> 
> A thousand thank yous to Chris and frog for their most excellent beta work (after I had lost all of my objectivity).

Athelwynne feels Arne's absence rather sharply. She knows she has not known him as well as the men, and certainly has not fought alongside him for years, but she still feels his loss. He was a good man, and funny, and kind to her. Certainly kinder than he had needed to be to a slave. She hopes he has gone to Valhalla as he wished to.

She murmurs a prayer by the fire, not for Arne's soul, but for his memory, and tries not to listen to Lagertha shouting at Ragnar in the next room. It doesn't particularly surprise her that Ragnar bedded the princess while the men were away, nor does it surprise her that Lagertha is angry about it. Athelwynne hopes Lagertha's anger will run out, and that this will be the end of it.

When the shouts and crashes turn to moans and sighs, Athelwynne can't be surprised about that either. She swallows a smile as Bjorn and Gyda roll their eyes and head outside. She trails after them. Perhaps Helga will talk Floki into allowing Athelwynne to see to his injuries.

—

Gyda clings to her, small but strong arms wrapped around her waist with no sign of loosening, face buried in the wool of her dress. "Athelwynne," she sobs, hiccuping in the middle of it. Athelwynne lets herself curl around Gyda, holding her for what's very likely the last time.

"Come on," Athelwynne says, stroking Gyda's hair and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Your mother is waiting."

Gyda lets go, her face wet with tears. Athelwynne can't help it; she takes Gyda's face in her hands, wipes the tears from her cheeks with her thumbs, and kisses her flushed forehead. Gyda takes one last look at Athelwynne, and runs toward the loaded wagon. Athelwynne wipes her eyes with her sleeve, and notices that the front of her dress is soaked through. She brushes at it uselessly.

"I will miss you, little mouse." Athelwynne startles, and turns toward Lagertha's voice. "Look after my son. He'll need it, surrounded by men as he is."

Athelwynne nods, swallowing tears. "I want to come with you."

Lagertha blinks in surprise. "You belong to Ragnar."

"I know. I just wanted you to know that I want to come with you." Athelwynne can't make herself look Lagertha in the face, for fear of what she might find there.

It doesn't matter, because Lagertha pulls Athelwynne into her arms, and whispers fiercely in her ear. "Ragnar values you. Values your judgment. Question his decisions, but don't push him. Find friends in Siggy and Helga; they can protect you if they wish to. Aslaug may be an ally as well. Learn what you can from him and the men, but keep your guard up." She squeezes Athelwynne tight. "I would take you if I could."

Athelwynne hangs back while Bjorn and the others see the wagon off. She ought to be strong, make a brave face for Gyda, but her heart is too shattered.

When Bjorn breaks away from Torstein and runs after the wagon, Athelwynne can't bring herself to chase him down. One goodbye is already too many.

— 

"Put on some trousers; I need you outside," Ragnar says, winks, and strides out of the hall where Athelwynne is working at the looms with Siggy and Aslaug. She gives them a weak smile in apology.

Siggy shakes her head in annoyance, but Aslaug smiles understandingly. "Go on," she says, so Athelwynne changes her clothes in the other room, ties her long curls out of the way, and goes to find Ragnar.

He is with the other men who train with axe, sword, and shield. Athelwynne has to weave around numerous fighting pairs before she reaches Ragnar. "Well, come on, then," he says, and tosses her an axe and a shield.

She has progressed far since her first lesson with Lagertha in the snow at Floki's house years ago, but Ragnar is much larger than her, and possesses far more strength and stamina. In their lessons together, he has taught her how to make use of her small size, to move swiftly and duck weapons and tire her enemy out whenever she can. She dodges his blows for the most part, and catches them on her shield when she can't avoid them. Her wrists ache from the force of his sword hitting her shield over and over, and she shoves back with all her strength. She pushes Ragnar away from her, granting herself a short reprieve.

"Not bad! You are almost as good as Gyda was when she was nine," Ragnar taunts, and Athelwynne snorts. She whips her axe in Ragnar's face, a quick one-two, which he dodges easily, but she feels better for having gone from defending to attacking. He grins, and tosses his shield aside. Athelwynne does the same. "Do you ever miss England?" Ragnar asks as he slashes his sword, aiming for her side.

Athelwynne smacks it away with her axe. "No!" She untangles the axe head from Ragnar's sword. "...Sometimes." She rushes him, bringing the axe down over her head. Swords are no good for close fighting; axes are much better suited for that sort of thing.

Ragnar catches it, blade against blade, with a loud clang. "I want you to come with me."

He throws his entire weight against his sword, and Athelwynne lands on her back in the dust, more startled by his words than by the fact that he knocked her down. "Of course," she says, surprised. Ragnar grins, and reaches a hand down to help her up again. "You know I don't know how to sail, right?" She says, and Ragnar laughs, and Athelwynne strikes. She yanks sharply on his hand and lets one foot fly out, sweeping his feet from under him. Ragnar lands on his own back in the dust, still laughing. She leaps on him, intending to hold her axe blade to his throat, but she's unsurprised when he blocks it, his fingers wrapped around her wrist. She notes with a little pride that he has to exert some force to keep her blade from his skin.

"You will learn," he says, and throws her off. "Perhaps you will come in useful." He gets to his feet, grinning, not offering his help this time. Athelwynne does not take her eyes from him as she stands, axe still in hand. They crash together, sword wheeling through the air and axe whistling past Ragnar's arms and head. "We will need the help of all the gods," Ragnar says, attacking in earnest, driving Athelwynne back and back. "Including yours."

A moment later, Athelwynne's axe flies from her hand and the point of Ragnar's sword settles firmly in the hollow of her throat. "It's one thing to use a weapon. It's another to kill," he says, and jabs the sword lightly against her skin. She inhales sharply but doesn't move. "Never hesitate," Ragnar says, and lifts the sword away. Athelwynne raises her fingers to the spot where the blade dug in, and wipes away a smear of blood. Ragnar tosses the sword aside. "We will do this again," he says lightly, and wanders back to the great hall.

Athelwynne cannot tell if she succeeded or failed.

— 

Some of the men have gathered their own dead together and have set them aflame. The English dead are left to rot where they fell, though their clothes have been ransacked for possible valuables. Athelwynne sits on a fallen log, carefully removing the traces of blood from the borrowed axe with a corner of her sleeve, when Ragnar crashes down next to her, rocking the log and grinning. "You have done it again, mouse."

"Sorry?"

"You're making a habit of saving my life."

Athelwynne looks at him sidelong. "Would you rather I didn't bother?"

She smirks, and Ragnar grins even wider, pleased at her show of arrogance. The axe is clean (or as clean as it's going to get without a bit of water and oil), and she offers it back, handle first, to Ragnar. He accepts, closes his huge hand around the worn leather strips wrapping the handle, takes the axe from her, and stands.

"Hey! Everyone shut up and pay attention!" Most of the men look in their direction with varying degrees of interest. Ragnar looks down at Athelwynne, who is still sitting on the log. "You rejected my gift once before, when I offered it. Now I offer it again, and I give you no choice." He grins, and pulls her to standing. "Athelwynne, daughter of—" He pauses, stumped.

Athelwynne huffs a laugh. "Wulfstan and Sæflæd."

Ragnar clears his throat and does his best to wrap his tongue around the English names. "Wulfstan and Sæflæd. I would ask you to accept this gift of earth and salt, so you remember that you belong to the land and the sea, but I have no salt and you don't belong to _this_ land, so let's just keep going." Ragnar slides his arm ring from his wrist and holds it in the palm of his hand before her. "Any vow you make on this ring must be kept with honor. Do you freely give your loyalty and fealty to me, your earl?"

The armring catches the sunlight that filters through the trees. Athelwynne reaches out slowly, unsure she's doing the right thing, and sets her fingertips upon the metal. Ragnar nods. "Yes, of course I do."

"Good. Now come here." Ragnar pulls her forward and kisses her on the mouth, featherlight. Athelwynne jerks back, confused, as most of the men set up a great racket of cheers and start drinking whatever they happen to have on them. Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpses Floki get to his feet and stalk away from the men, flicking his hands and spitting. Amid the noise, Athelwynne barely catches Ragnar's words. "Do you understand what it is I've done here?"

"No, should I?" She is still shaken from the kiss, and is unsure what Ragnar meant by it.

"I have made you a free woman, Athelwynne. Made you part of my family. I cannot give you an arm ring because they are only for when a boy becomes a man, but I can declare it in front of witnesses and no one can deny it." Ragnar waits for Athelwynne to speak, but she has no words. "You are no longer my slave," he says slowly, as if she is a small, stupid child. He presses the axe back into her hands. "This is yours. It's the best I can do for now. You may carry weapons, own property; your life is your own now."

Athelwynne slides the axe into the ring at her hip and forces her voice not to waver. "Ragnar. Thank you."

"You did not hesitate." Ragnar slings an arm around her shoulders. "Come, let's get you a drink."

— 

Though the old bishop had cursed her for an apostate, Athelwynne cannot bear to see him bound to the pillar, stuck full of arrows in a gory parody of Saint Sebastian's torture. The story reminds her of Saint Irene, the good woman who had shown Saint Sebastian compassion, taken him into her home, and healed him of his wounds. Ragnar's eyes flash, which gives her the courage to walk into the path of the arrows. She tries not to think of herself as a twisted, perverted Irene as she holds the bishop's head in her hand, takes the knife and cuts his throat while saying the words for the dying over him. She looks away as the abhorrence in the bishop's eyes is replaced by blank death. It is a mercy. There is no more she could have done.

It was more than she should have done. Floki snarls at her as she turns and walks away.

She sits on her own in a dim corner while the men gather up the plunder and prepare to take it back to the camp. It turns out death looks the same no matter who you are. The bishop's eyes had gone dim, just like the young monk's as she'd buried her axe in his chest. They had looked just the same as the people who had died of the fever in Kattegat. Just the same as Thyri's eyes before Siggy had closed them with one hand, weeping into the other.

And yet she had assured Ragnar and King Horik that this place was worth raiding, had led them straight to the gold hidden beneath the altar. She doesn't mind seeing God's treasure in the hands of the Northmen. Men give much worth to gold, but God is beyond such small matters. The bodies on the floor and in the yard, though, and the body she left in the scriptorium— they trouble her. The battle in the forest was about survival. These deaths were not. And she sits in this holy place and wonders, what is she now?

Ragnar sits down at her left, stretching his legs and lounging back, looking for all the world like he is about to take a quick nap right there on the stone steps. She doesn't look at him. She wants to be left alone, but knows that he will never do that, not while she is there to needle and pick at.

He looks at her, waiting for something. Athelwynne sighs, knowing there's no point in ignoring him. He twitches his eyebrows. "What is a miracle?"

What a question. But of course he is curious. Ragnar's curiosity will drive her crazy someday. "Miracles are things that... can't happen, by any logic or effort. And yet, they do. And they are wonderful."

"Like what?" Ragnar bumps her knee with his. "Explain."

"Like…" Athelwynne chews her lower lip. "The greatest miracle of all is Christ's resurrection." Ragnar shrugs one shoulder. Athelwynne knows he doesn't understand but neither does he care to show it. "When He arose from death after three days. It is the most fundamental part of the Christian faith."

"What else?"

She thinks for a moment. "Well, in order to become a saint you must perform a miracle, like surviving burning or your body remaining whole and uncorrupted after death."

"You still believe in these things. Even after all this time."

"Yes." Maybe. Probably, she does. Sometimes she wonders. Sometimes Odin and Thor and Frigga are far more real and tangible than God and His Son ever were. Sometimes she doesn't know what to believe.

—

Without Ragnar's influence, King Horik allows the camp to become an orgy of sin. Athelwynne tries to spend her time with Hilde and Auda and the other shieldmaidens, but King Horik demands to see her often. He tells her he wants to learn the language of the English king, and she tries to teach him, but he has no patience for it and no real will to learn. Not like Ragnar did.

Her loneliness and the memory of Floki's cruel taunts prick thorns in her heart, leaving her with the book he threw at her and the skeletal hand of Saint Birinus. She feels like a boiling pot on the fire, her emotions ready to spill over the rim to hiss and snap in the embers.

She grabs the book and slips through the knots of warriors and shieldmaidens to an empty tent. The men have returned from raiding a local farm and are in high spirits, waiting for the kitchen drudges to cook the sheep they slaughtered and hauled back to camp. Athelwynne hears a shout of English, and looks up. Three or four nuns, captured from Winchester, are being dragged into a crowd of King Horik's men. The men push them roughly, pull at their clothing, rip their veils away. One of the women is pushed too hard and falls to her hands and knees in the churned up mud. A younger man kicks her onto her back and holds her down with one hand at her throat while he tears at her robes with his other hand. The rest of the men laugh loudly and encourage him as she struggles and cries.

Athelwynne wants to vomit, wants to rage, wants to gut all those cowardly bastards with her axe. She knows that she would be killed for her trouble, or most likely end up in the same place as the nun in the mud, so she clutches the book to her and ducks into the tent. She stumbles over to a pile of furs and cushions, and opens the book at random, trying not to hear the women's cries and prayers.

The book falls open to an image of the crucifixion. The edges of the page are worn and discolored, as though many people have looked upon the image and touched it with hands straight from laboring in the wheat fields. Athelwynne runs her fingers over the smudges too, blinking back sudden tears.

His hands are bleeding. His feet are bleeding. The wound in His side is bleeding. And it's real, it's shining in the dim light of the tent, flowing down His body. Athelwynne's breath catches. She brushes her tears away, thinking it a trick of the light. But no, the book itself is pumping dark red heart's blood from inside it down the page. Christ seems to writhe on the cross, eyes rolling heavenward in pain and supplication. She lifts a trembling hand, reaches to touch the stream of blood with one fingertip.

"Athelwynne, come on, there's good meat to be had!" Auda pokes her head under the tent flap, grinning, and pulls it back a moment later.

Athelwynne looks down at the book again. It's just an illustration. Not even a very good one. Certainly not bloodstained. Still, she is shaken and upset. It seemed so real. She wants to talk to someone about it, but who would listen? All her friends are back home, across the sea. And none of them, not even Ragnar, would really understand. She shoves the book under the pile of cushions and goes to catch up with Auda.

—

Everything hurts. She remembers looking for her companions in the forest, and finding them all fled or dead. She remembers running, and hiding like a frightened rabbit. She remembers half-tripping over the words of her mother tongue, so desperate she was to surrender. She remembers being thrown to the ground, being beaten and kicked and hit with swords, spears, even sticks. She remembers being held down and stripped of her clothes and shoes, down to her long undershirt. She remembers the soldiers holding her wrists to the post, one soldier driving nails through her hands into the wood, holding her there. She remembers the blood dripping down her arms, warm and ticklish. She remembers the bishop ordering the soldiers to gather green wood and dead grass to throw at her feet. She remembers the stink of wet wood smoke filling her head, and the flames clawing at her bare feet and legs. She remembers screaming. She remembers the man ordering the soldiers to cut her down.

The man had turned out to be a king. She supposes she ought to be grateful.

The sisters set her to work as soon as she can use a crutch to stand and walk without falling. The crutch keeps some of her weight off her feet, but rubs her punctured hands raw. They give her an undyed and clumsily mended dress to wear, of much rougher material than their soft grey habits. They force her into stillness and cut her hair off. Her long curls, the braids woven in, all gone. Her head is cold now, and she hates it. It's meant to shame her, and she is ashamed, but for different reasons than they intend.

They don't ask her questions. They don't speak to her at all if they can help it. And of course they don't; why would they speak to the apostate?

But she's not. She's _not,_ no matter what the bishop at Winchester had accused her of. She never fell away from Christ, she never stopped loving Him. Her love has changed over the years, that's true, and she is a completely different person now than she was when Ragnar stole her from Lindisfarne. She is even different than she was when Aslaug came to stay and Lagertha and the children left. She has seen the influence of the northern gods in the world, and they satisfy something in her that all the saints in their glory could not. But her love of God remains. She still thinks of herself as Christian, and it does not feel like a lie.

The sisters take her to daily mass when she is well enough. Athelwynne isn't sure that she wants to go (though she knows that if she doesn't she'll simply be confirming what they all think about her), but during the service she nearly weeps. She had truly forgotten the power and beauty of a mass, even an everyday one like this. Sister Eadwen gives her a strange look, which Athelwynne ignores. It's as though Sister Eadwen has never seen anyone moved by faith before.

The familiar words come back to her in a rush, and she lets them flow over her. She silently mouths the Latin along with the bishop. She feels like she's floating in a slow river, or sitting in the scriptorium at Lindisfarne on a warm, sunny day. It's comforting in a way that very little has been in her time in Scandinavia.

Until the congregation lines up to receive the sacrament. The king goes first, of course, and the wine sparkling in the chalice becomes the blood glinting in the early morning light at Uppsala. Pooling under Leif's twitching body, dripping into bowls and onto the ground. Smeared under King Horik's blank eyes.

Athelwynne shudders to try and rid her head of the old memories, limps up the dais, and thuds down onto her knees. She tucks her crutch under her arm and lifts her bandaged hands. The bishop, the same one who had wanted to burn her, squints down at her, but still places the bread into her hands and mutters the blessing over her. Athelwynne hauls herself up to her feet again and retakes her place next to Sister Eadwen. Prince Æthelwulf is watching her with hard eyes and a face that makes Athelwynne's spine shiver, so she lifts her hand to her mouth, chews, and swallows. He looks away again, and Athelwynne hides the hand holding the Eucharist between two folds of her dress, and crumbles the bread away between her fingers.

Why had she done that? Athelwynne knows she must present an outward appearance of compliance, but she also knows that this bishop is no good man. She does not wish to receive the sacrament from him.

She looks up at the crucifix to cross herself. Dark red blood drips from Christ's hands and feet and the wound in His side. No one else seems to see it, and Athelwynne remembers the book Floki flung at her in King Horik's camp. The longer she stares at the crucifix on the wall, and the louder her memories from Uppsala echo in her mind, the less sure she is of what she's done.

The bishop calls loudly for prayer, and Athelwynne blinks. The blood is gone.

King Ecgbert calls her into his presence before too long. His advisors and courtiers are there, as well as the bishop who looks at her as if she is dog shit stuck to his shoe. Athelwynne stands behind the king's chair against the wall, partially for the support but mostly to stay out of the bishop's sight. A woman, hooded and cloaked, begs the king for justice and mercy. The king demands that the woman lower her hood, and the jagged gash across her face makes Athelwynne's heart clench in sorrow and anger.

The woman says that her husband accused her of adultery and beat her. She wishes to leave her husband and stay safe within the walls of an abbey.

"And were you? Unfaithful?" King Ecgbert asks.

"No, my lord, I never was," the woman says, falling to her knees, and Athelwynne can see in her eyes that she knows the men do not believe her.

"And what judgment would the heathens pass upon this woman?" King Ecgbert waves at Athelwynne with an imperious hand. She jams the crutch under her arm and steps forward as well as she can.

Athelwynne thinks of Lagertha, confident and proud, sitting on the earl's chair in Ragnar's absence, listening to the husband accuse his wife of lying with another man. How she had told them that the child was a blessing from Heimdall. "She has said she is innocent of wrongdoing. The Northmen would take her word, my lord, and judge in her favor."

"Yet her husband has every right to discipline his wife," the king says mildly, as though it's an interesting intellectual debate, as though the fate of this woman on her knees before him does not hang in the balance.

"In the eyes of the Church, yes," Athelwynne says, trying not to let her temper show. "But she has not come to the Church for justice; she has come to you, my lord. Even the laws in Northumbria say a woman may take her children and property and leave a bad marriage. Clearly her marriage is not a good one."

"It is thus in Wessex, also. How do you have such knowledge of the law?" King Ecgbert turns to pin Athelwynne with his eyes.

"The nuns of Lindisfarne copied many books and documents, my lord. Some of them were secular."

She glances down at the woman, who looks up at Athelwynne with amazement.

King Ecgbert stares at Athelwynne for a moment, then turns back to the woman. "Well, since it appears that both the laws of the Northmen and the laws of Wessex are on your side, I grant your request to live among the nuns, and take holy orders if you are called to do so."

The woman's eyes fill with tears, and she smiles. "Thank you, my lord, thank—"

"Oh, don't thank me," the king says, and sets his frank gaze upon Athelwynne again. "Thank this heathen."

—

The glowing figure glides closer, and her cloak bursts into the sweetest, most heavenly blue Athelwynne has ever seen. The dress under the cloak burns bright white into Athelwynne's eyes, but she cannot look away. The noise of the courtyard diminishes into an inconsequential murmur yet the wind seems to pick up and blow the figure nearer, and the beautiful, half-hidden face under the blue hood curves itself into a loving, welcoming smile.

Athelwynne is overcome. She can barely stand under the assault on her senses: the brightness of the dress, the strength of the roaring wind, the swelling of her heart.

"My name is Ealswith."

For she is more beautiful than the sun, and excels every constellation of the stars. Compared with the light she is superior. No, you are Mary. The world rushes back in all its mundanity. "Wh— pardon?" It's the woman from Ecgbert's audience, whose husband had abused her.

The woman clasps Athelwynne's bandaged hands. It hurts, but she doesn't let it show. "I just wanted to thank you."

Athelwynne draws her hands back. "Please don't feel obligated. Just because the king said—"

"No, I mean it. I am truly thankful that you defended me in front of the king. You were so brave to cross him like that!" Ealswith puts a hand on Athelwynne's arm. "This was my last hope; you saved me."

"I— I'm glad you're all right. No woman should be treated like that. Especially not a Christian."

Ealswith smiles gratefully, and then, seemingly on impulse, leans forward and embraces her carefully. Athelwynne freezes, then forces herself to bring her hands up to touch Ealswith's shoulders. The embrace surprises her. It's the first time anyone has touched her with friendly intent since she was last with King Horik's shieldmaidens.

Athelwynne pulls away after a moment. "Have you had any help for…" She gestures toward her own cheek.

Ealswith flushes with humiliation, and Athelwynne feels terrible for her. "My husband said I did not deserve it."

"Your husband—!" Athelwynne cuts herself off before she can start a tirade about contemptible men who do not deserve such kind and gentle women for wives. She takes a breath to calm herself. "Your husband is no longer your husband. Let's see if I can find something. It shouldn't be too late to lessen a scar." She smiles and takes Ealswith's hand in her own, and leads her toward the nuns' infirmary. Ealswith smiles back tentatively, and Athelwynne feels happiness in her heart. Maybe this woman can be a friend.

— 

The guard pushes Athelwynne forward into the empty hall— empty, that is, but for King Ecgbert. He waves the guard off, who bows and marches out. Athelwynne's knees bend and her head bows. She can only imagine what the king wants from her.

He waits until she stands upright on her crutch again, and finds him staring at her with an intensity she has not felt since Ragnar sailed for home.

He stands for a long moment, studying her like a book. Her feet begin to ache.

"You are interesting," he says, drawing the words out. "Athelwynne, is it?" As if he does not know exactly what her name is. She nods anyway. "There are few interesting, intelligent people among those who surround me. Clearly you are both. I am going to ask you many questions, for I find your experiences fascinating, and I want you to answer them honestly, with no thought of offending me. Or the bishop," he adds, smiling conspiratorially. "His mind is small and closed, but ours, Athelwynne, have been opened to the world."

Athelwynne has no idea how to respond, but the king seems to expect her to. "My lord, I—"

"How long did you spend among the Northmen?"

"About five or six years, my lord. Since the raid on Lindisfarne Abbey."

"That long," he says wonderingly. "And their gods, Odin and Thor and Freyr, how strange you must have found them."

Athelwynne pauses for a moment. "Their gods are very old, my lord. Sometimes I could not help noticing some similarities with our own God and His Son. The god Baldr, for example—"

"Come with me!" King Ecgbert's eyes go wide and excited, and he turns and sweeps his way out of the hall, leaving Athelwynne to hasten painfully after him.

As they pass through the corridors of the villa, the king waves a few guards off as they start to join them, as if the king must fear an injured and limping woman. They cross a courtyard dotted with statues and broken stone pillars, and Athelwynne suddenly has an inkling of the king's intent.

They return indoors, climb a truly wretched number of stairs, and finally stop in a large room. The windows let in good light, and illuminate walls covered in faded, crumbling painted images. Men and animals (and a few combinations of the two) romp and dance across the walls, joyful in their nudity and abandon. King Ecgbert gestures widely at them. "Tell me honestly, what do you think of these works?"

Athelwynne manages not to blush at the lewd scenes, but only looks at them briefly. The king does not need to think her more of a heathen than he already does. "I find them… indescribably compelling."

"But they are clearly not Christian works," the king says, and Athelwynne nods in agreement. He moves closer to her, and quirks a smile. "You are only a woman, but yet somehow I begin to trust you. I feel you are a kindred spirit." He steps away again, his attention back on the walls. "Who? Who painted these images? What race of man was ever so glorious that they filled our world with such, as you say, indescribable things?"

The king looks so enamoured by the paintings, so much that he cannot take his eyes from them. It makes Athelwynne bold. She will take him at his word and speak plainly. "I have been told, my lord, that you served at the court of the Emperor Charlemagne. Which I have also visited. I cannot imagine, therefore, that you do not know what I know. That these images were painted by the Romans. They conquered these lands a long time ago. They conquered the whole world. But they were heathens. They worshipped false gods."

King Ecgbert turns to look at her keenly. "I knew you were intelligent. An educated woman is a rare and fine thing in this land." He steps close to her, puts his hands lightly on her upper arms, and looks straight into her eyes. "Never speak of our conversation to any other man or woman here. Nobody else would understand it. They would fear it. They accept the interpretation that a race of giants once lived here! And that we have nothing to do with them. The fact is, Athelwynne, we have lost more knowledge than we ever had. These Romans knew things that we will never know! Their heathen gods allowed them to rule the world." A light appears in the king's eyes; a harsh, intelligent light, full of strategy and ambition. "And what is the lesson we can learn from that?"

— 

"How are you getting on with the sisters?"

They sit on a bench in the courtyard, enjoying the late summer sunlight and the flurry of activity around them. Ealswith smiles, looking down at her feet. Her wound is much less red and angry and is well on its way to being healed, though Athelwynne wishes she would sit tall and unashamed, like a woman who has experienced her own personal hell and escaped it. "They're lovely. They're so patient and kind to someone like me."

"What do you mean?" Athelwynne knows exactly what she means.

"I hardly deserve a place with them—"

"Hush, you certainly do. Or at least you deserve a tiny bit of human decency, like everyone does," Athelwynne says. Ealswith blushes, but keeps on smiling, so Athelwynne continues. "Are they teaching you anything interesting?"

"Oh, they're just putting me to work most of the time, gardening and mending and caring for the animals," Ealswith says. "Though I… never mind." She shakes her head.

"What?"

"No, it's silly."

Athelwynne takes one of Ealswith's hands in her own. "Tell me."

"I— I wonder if— if they might teach me to read," Ealswith says softly, so soft that Athelwynne almost misses it.

Athelwynne grins and holds Ealswith's hand tighter. "You want to learn to read?"

"Very much," Ealswith says, her face red as autumn apples.

"I'll teach you."

"You would— Athelwynne, you've already done so much for me!" Ealswith's eyes are unbelieving, but Athelwynne can see a spark of hope in them.

"And now I want to help you learn to read as well."

Ealswith stares at Athelwynne unmoving for a moment, and then squeaks with happiness and hugs Athelwynne tightly, pressing a kiss to both her cheeks. "You are too good to me, Athelwynne! I don't know what I've done to deserve you! God must love me very much to have sent me such a blessing as you."

"Oh, I'm sure He does," Athelwynne says, but is cut off by someone calling Ealswith's name across the courtyard. It's one of the sisters, standing sternly by a dark doorway. Ealswith grimaces an apology and hurries toward the sister. Athelwynne watches out of the corner of her eye as the sister clearly scolds Ealswith and points a deprecating finger straight at Athelwynne. Ealswith bows her head and looks properly chastised. The sister takes Ealswith by the wrist and leads her back inside, but Ealswith looks back over her shoulder and winks at Athelwynne.

Athelwynne spends the rest of the day gathering books, ink, and parchment with a secret smile on her face.

— 

The bandages are gone from Athelwynne's hands, but holding a quill still feels strange, like something she used to do in dreams. She supposes that isn't too far from the truth. The round, rough scars on her palms and the backs of her hands pull insistently at the healthy skin, and unsettle her while she works.

King Ecgbert enters the dusty, drafty room, and Athelwynne scrambles to put down the quill without ruining the vellum and get to her still aching feet at the same time. "My lord." Despite the king's friendly demeanor towards her and his willingness to share his Roman relics, she does not, cannot trust him. She knows what he wants, and that is only to use her knowledge of the Northmen to his advantage. It's like reliving the early days at Ragnar's old farm, just after she'd been taken from Lindisfarne.

Sometimes Athelwynne dreams of the farm.

"I have brought you something," the king says, and pulls an object from his belt. It's a cross on a chain. It is small, but very richly made: the gold of the chain and the arms of the cross are shined to brightness, and the garnet in the center of the cross flashes a deep, vivid red in the light from the window. King Ecgbert passes the chain over Athelwynne's head and arranges the cross just so against the wool of her dress.

It is a truly exquisite piece, of expert Mercian make and far too valuable for someone like her, but what can she do but accept? "Thank you, my lord. It's beautiful."

She twists her hands into her rough dress and keeps her eyes cast down. The king slides a crooked finger under her chin and tilts her face up. "Why do you look down? Are you frightened, my dear? Are you unhappy here?"

"No, my lord, I—" But she does not know how to explain herself. "I am well; simply a little anxious knowing that the Northmen will return." It is not entirely a lie.

King Ecgbert nods and lets his hand fall away. "Of course. You spent so long in their clutches, it's only natural for a little thing like you to be nervous at the thought of them." Athelwynne lets her head drop again, as if to nod in agreement. "They are not here now, though, so we have some space to breathe. Have you finished copying the Fire Bird poem?"

"Not quite, my lord. Some of the phrases are difficult to translate faithfully." She picks up the page she's working on, blows across the surface to help the ink dry, and hands it to the king.

"I must confess, Athelwynne, that I have not the skill with words that you so clearly do. The nuns at Lindisfarne taught their students well." He takes a cursory glance at the page and hands it back. "You missed your work while in the Northlands, yes?"

"Yes, my lord." That's not a lie at all. "I thought I had forgotten, but it seems the hands can remember what the mind does not."

King Ecgbert smiles mildly at her and touches her shoulder. "That is well said." He walks a slow circuit around the room, toying with a fragile scroll here, running a fingertip over a marble bust's ridge there. "May I ask something of you, Athelwynne?"

"Of course, my lord." Here it comes, she thinks. Her legs, still bearing the last of the deep bruising from her beating, start to feel shaky.

"I wonder if you would be… amenable to act as translator during my negotiations with the Northmen upon their inevitable return," he says, not quite making it a question.

Inwardly, Athelwynne sighs. She knew it was coming. "May I be forthright with you, my lord?"

"Please."

"I had thought that was the reason you saved me from burning." Her voice shakes, but only a little. "Because of my knowledge of the Northmen."

"You are not wrong, though I am glad you proved useful in other areas as well," the king says, gesturing to the relics around them. "I can't get much past you, now, can I?" He chuckles. "I'll be counting on you to help me get through to this Ragnar Lothbrok so we may... come to an agreement that benefits us all."

Later, lying in her bed, stretching the scars on the palms of her hands, she laughs to herself. 'An agreement that benefits us all.' Yes, that was likely. Ragnar wanted Ecgbert's land, and Ecgbert wanted Ragnar dead.

—

Princess Cwenthryth corners Athelwynne after dinner, while King Ælla and King Ecgbert are in their cups, ostensibly still celebrating Prince Athelwulf's marriage to Princess Judith. "Ecgbert tells me you spent years among the Northmen, is that right?" Princess Cwenthryth presses a goblet of wine into Athelwynne's hand. "Tell me about them; I'm burning with curiosity."

Athelwynne takes a small, polite sip of the wine. It affects her much more than it used to; she hasn't had wine since well before leaving Lindisfarne. "Yes, my lady, I lived with them for a long time."

"And?" The princess grins at her, almost bouncing on her toes in excitement. "They are strong, are they not? The strongest men you've ever seen?" Athelwynne nods. "And pleasing to the eye?"

Athelwynne thinks fondly of Torstein, who, if not beautiful, certainly has his own charm. "I suppose some of them could be considered—"

Princess Cwenthryth makes a delighted noise. "And they know how to satisfy a woman in the bedchamber?" Athelwynne chokes on the wine. "These Christian men, damn them, know nothing of female desires. You've doubtless… had the experience?" She smiles at Athelwynne slyly, inviting her to share all she knows.

"No, my lady, I have not!" Athelwynne feels her face heat. She thinks of Ragnar's light, ceremonial kiss in the wood when he freed her. She thinks of Ragnar's fingers around her wrist and how he very nearly forced her after Lagertha lost the child. She thinks of the first night, the invitation into Ragnar and Lagertha's bed, and how she turned it down. She wonders if she would refuse again, if the offer were put to her once more.

"Not once? I can't believe that. Don't tell me you didn't want to!" The princess looks more disappointed than disbelieving.

"I stayed as faithful to my vows as I could while I was there, my lady."

"Ugh, I'm sure you did," Princess Cwenthryth says, rolling her eyes. "You are boring." She wanders off, and Athelwynne finds herself alone with her thoughts again. She feels less and less English with every conversation she has. Perhaps she does belong with Ragnar's people in the North. She remembers Floki's spite, and frowns. Perhaps not. Perhaps she is destined to be between worlds for the rest of her life, with no people who are truly her own.

—

"Please help me, Lord. Who are these gods who prey on my mind and walk through my dreams? You taught us not to worship false gods, but I have seen them. I have seen Thor in the sky, I've seen the sparks flying from his anvil. I have seen the sly intelligence of Loki in Floki's eyes. I have seen Odin in Ragnar's face, and seen him worship Lagertha become Freyja in their bed. Their gods seem so alive, so present in the world. How is this false?

"And I know it's ungrateful, but I feel as though You have abandoned me! You could not even protect Your own house, full of women who did nothing but sing praises to You and worship Your name! You must have a plan, I have always been told that You have a plan, but how does the slaughter and enslavement of those who love You help You? You brought me to the North, and I learned to love my life and the people there; was that part of Your plan? But now You have brought me to Wessex. I don't understand.

"I have always been told how to love You, how to worship You, and that anything that deviates from it is wrong. But while living in the North, I have seen so many other ways to love, and I don't feel as though this makes me love You any less. I see the beauty in the world, the love people bear for others, the joy they bring to each other, and it simply makes me love You all the more, for I know all love is Your work. 

"Perhaps… perhaps Odin and Thor and Freyja and Baldr are simply different faces that You wear to make Yourself known more easily. Is that wrong?

"But now that I am here with King Ecgbert… I feel so separate from these people. Have I changed that much? I know I should confess my sins to the bishop, but am I truly to ask forgiveness from a man who wants me dead for an apostate? And the king does not treat me as though I am English; he treats me like one of his heathen curiosities, kept out of the way to be taken out and played with when it suits him. He keeps me for my knowledge of the Northmen just as Ragnar kept me for my knowledge of the English, but what happens when I am no longer useful? He will not treat me as well as Ragnar did, I am sure of that. Will You protect me? Do You still see me?

"The work I do here reminds me so much of my old life, of my sisters and how content I was with them. I love these words, the vellum and quills and ink. But I see it for the cage that it is. I seem to have been released from Ragnar's cage only to find myself in King Ecgbert's. Lord, please help me reconcile these two worlds, the one I was born into and the one I came alive in. For I do not believe I was truly alive until Ragnar brought me to the North."

— 

"In there?"

The guard rolls his eyes and gestures toward the door, sarcastic grandness in the sweep of his hand.

Athelwynne looks down at the floor and scurries through. Be meek, be frightened, she thinks; she's supposed to be a mere woman of the English, not a shieldmaiden of the North.

The humidity hits her full in the face when she enters the room. She has never been in the bath house before, though she knows it's Ecgbert's favorite place in the villa. The air is thick and heavy, and heat and water flood her lungs when she drags a breath in.

"Athelwynne, thank you for coming."

King Ecgbert is in the bath, lounging against the far side, proving the saying that clothing has no bearing on a man's worth. He wears nothing but the water, yet looks every inch the king, and Athelwynne's eyes snap to the wet stone floor as her knees bend in respectful courtesy. "My lord. How may I serve you?" She regrets her choice of words immediately.

"Would you like a bath, Athelwynne? I offer the use of this room to my dearest friends, and you most certainly rank among them."

She does her best not to let her utter shock show, for the king is at the perfect angle to see any reaction she might have. "My lord— I don't think—"

"Come now, don't be shy. The water's quite warm and comfortable." The king smiles and flicks at the water with his fingers, and Athelwynne bites the inside of her cheek. She has noticed how the king looks at her and speaks to her, how he occasionally touches her neck or her face, how he sometimes smooths her clothing or toys with the cross hanging from her neck. She is not so innocent as to be unaware that he wants her, but hadn't expected him to be so blatant about it. She has no idea how to get herself out of this safely. 

"My lord, the sisters who care for me might find it inappropriate of me if I did." There, put the blame on herself, not on King Ecgbert, who of course must remain blameless.

"You don't still think of yourself as a nun, do you?" King Ecgbert moves toward her, making waves in the water, and stopping against the near edge of the bath, right in Athelwynne's field of vision. "After all those years in the North; witnessing, I'm sure, countless sacrifices and rituals? You never worshipped those heathen gods of theirs?" The warmth of the water creates curls of steam in the air where the king has disturbed it, and they drift across the water to dissipate against the stone.

"I still consider myself a Christian," she murmurs, keeping her eyes averted. Which is true, if not the whole truth. The steam curls around itself and wafts through the air, winding against her body and getting into her eyes. It disturbs her in a way she can't pin down.

"You never fell away?" King Ecgbert's questions have no accusatory edge to them; they are merely curious, he truly wants to learn about her experiences with the Northmen. Yet Athelwynne can't help but hear them echo in the bishop's voice: hard and cruel and condemning. The steam turns to thick woodsmoke and she coughs. King Ecgbert's voice seems to come from a long way off.

"I never—" The smoke fills her mouth and nose and stings her eyes. "I never turned away from Christ, I swear—" The fire dances around her feet and the nails pierce her hands, though she fists her dress tight.

"For apostasy is a stain that will never wash off," the bishop rails, and Athelwynne's hands drip with blood. She's going to die. No one is going to save her. She's going to burn. She thinks of Saint Juliana, stripped, beaten, imprisoned, burned, but never touched by the flames. Athelwynne is not a saint. She is going to burn, and then she's going to burn for all eternity because God doesn't see her anymore— 

She snaps back to reality, the king's hands shaking her shoulders and his voice in her ears shouting her name. She has collapsed to the floor of the bath house, and the water soaks through her dress. Tears streak her cheeks, and King Ecgbert wipes them away carefully with his sleeve. He has put on a linen robe, which she is distantly thankful for, and his eyes are almost frightened. She did not know a king could be frightened.

"Athelwynne. Thank God. Clearly you are not yet well. Let me take you back to the sisters." He lifts her to standing. She tries to pull away from him (a king should not be looking after her as if she were a child), but he will have none of it, and gently leads her out of the bath house.

— 

"Your friends have returned."

Athelwynne shifts to rise from her bench, but King Ecgbert waves her back down. "My friends, my lord?"

The king stalks slowly through the dim shelves toward her. "A large fleet of Northmen have come ashore in Wessex. One of the ships, I am told, was flying the black raven banner of Ragnar Lothbrok."

"What will you do?"

"I hope I can negotiate with Ragnar. When we met before, he struck me as different. Intelligent."

"He will listen to reason. My lord, he will listen to _me_. Send me to negotiate—"

"I will not send you to speak to the Northmen. You are already too dear to me, too important. Which is why I think they would kill you." King Ecgbert catches Athelwynne's chin in his fingers and tilts her face up to meet his eyes. "I will not give you up. It is good that Ragnar will listen to reason. But if not… I will fight him. I've already sent a message to King Ælla, asking him to supply warriors according to our treaty. Whatever happens, I will not be defeated." The king slides his hand down Athelwynne's jaw to cup her neck possessively. His hand is chilly on her skin. She suppresses a shiver and wishes mightily for the trousers she wore when she was captured. He brings his face close to hers. She can feel his damp breath on her skin. "I know you are still of two minds, Athelwynne. You do not know whether you wish to stay here or leave with the Northmen. You must know that it is my wish that you stay here, in Wessex with me." His grip on her neck tightens just a bit, just enough to let her know that she is his, that she is the king's property just as much as she once was Ragnar's.

"Yes, my lord." Trading one cage for another.

King Ecgbert releases her neck and leaves. Athelwynne exhales and picks up her quill again, but her hand shakes so hard that the ink left on it falls onto the vellum and drips down the page, dark as blood.

A raven cries out and beats its wings at the window. A feather comes free and, caught by a draft of air, slips into the room through a broken pane of glass. It drifts down to rest at Athelwynne's feet, and she picks it up with unsteady hands. It's black as the ink on the page, black as the banner on Ragnar's ship.

The feather flutters in her trembling hands. Ragnar is coming. She will see him soon.

— 

Athelwynne stops short as a servant boy throws a bucket of filthy, bloody water in her path and stares at her. She lifts her dress and walks through the puddle, refusing to give the boy the satisfaction of a response. She is rather used to the people's treatment of her, knowing she is not one of them and never will be again. She can't think of that right now, though: she must see if Rollo will live.

He will, it turns out, but she is far more pleased to see him than he is to see her.

"Priestess. Look at you. Horik was right, you betrayed us." It clearly takes all the strength Rollo has to move his hand to Athelwynne's throat. "If I had enough strength to kill you now, I would."

Athelwynne gently disengages Rollo's fingers from her throat, and carefully places his hand next to him on the cot. Part of her wants to find whoever maimed Rollo and maim them right back because she cannot stand to see such a strong, fearsome warrior brought so low, made so weak. The mere idea of it makes her want to retch. A more logical part of her lays everything plain in her mind. Horik told everyone that she betrayed them. It all makes so much sense now.

Rollo is far too exhausted to speak further, but he is still conscious and listening so Athelwynne takes the opportunity, even if he won't believe her. Or even remember her words. She reaches back into her mind to find the Norse words she hasn't used in months. "I never betrayed you. I was myself betrayed and captured." Rollo snorts. "Horik does not wish to negotiate with King Ecgbert. Ragnar does, I'm sure of it. Horik wants only to kill and return home with treasure. Ragnar wants to farm, for the good of all your people."

Rollo rolls his eyes, but says nothing. Athelwynne sighs and continues. "I will make sure your safe return is part of the negotiations." Rollo bares his teeth at her and closes his eyes. Athelwynne knows a dismissal when she sees one, so she makes sure his bandages are clean and leaves to see how Ealswith is getting on with her letters.

— 

Athelwynne is unsure how or why exactly King Ecgbert decided to let her go talk to the Northmen, but she isn't about to argue with the gift. The two soldiers who were ordered to accompany her only get more irritable and twitchy the closer they get to the Northmen's camp, so as they approach the small wood that lies between them and the camp, she suggests they stay on that side of it and wait for her there. They huff and posture and accuse Athelwynne of insulting their manhood, but stay there as she walks into the wood.

Men are ridiculous, she thinks, shaking her head, no matter where in the world they are.

The noise and camp smells grow as she approaches, and she holds her empty hands up so the perimeter guards can see she's unarmed and not a threat. Two men she doesn't recognize take her by the upper arms and march her into the camp.

The first person she sees is a handsome young man with yellow hair cut short in front and shaved in the back, and her knees almost buckle in shock because it's _Bjorn_. Bjorn who she hasn't seen since he was an entire head shorter than her, and now he must be an entire head taller. Bjorn who looks so much like his father now. Beyond him are more faces she knows— Torstein by the blue tent, and Floki standing apart from the main crowd, and Sigunnr the shieldmaiden, and—

Athelwynne's heart clenches and her breath stops. Standing under a rain shield is Lagertha, and a tall girl with light brown hair who must be Gyda. Lagertha is here, and has brought her children. A thousand questions run through Athelwynne's mind. She has no idea what emotions are showing on her face, but she swallows hard and turns back to Bjorn.

"Hello, Bjorn. Do you remember me?"

"Of course I remember you. I wanted to kill you when I was a child." He crouches down in front of her, placing himself between her and the rest of the Northmen. "And then I loved you."

Athelwynne can't keep the smile from her eyes. "I know you are close to your uncle. I want you all to know that Rollo is wounded, but alive and being cared for." There's movement in the crowd behind Bjorn, and she scans it for Ragnar. Her eyes land on someone else entirely. She nods in hollow acknowledgement. "King Horik." He narrows his eyes at her and starts to speak, but is interrupted.

"Why have you come, Athelwynne? Did you escape?" Lagertha steps out from under the tent, and Athelwynne's heart jumps into her throat.

"I came here to talk to you."

King Horik speaks up from the midst of his men. "King Ecgbert sent you. You do his bidding. You are one of them."

"He offers you a chance for peace. He wishes to talk of many things with you. He wishes to negotiate."

"Yes, and then kill us," King Horik says, scowling.

"No, he will not, I swear." Athelwynne keeps her eyes on Lagertha; she can't make herself look at King Horik. "King Ecgbert is honorable." And he is, as long as things are going his way.

"You are his dog. You lick his fingers. You lick his cock. You are his whore," King Horik says with some relish. Athelwynne flushes red and clamps her jaw shut. She does not understand why King Horik hates her so much; only that he does, and she must not forget herself, even when such lies and insults are flung at her.

Floki is suddenly next to her, tweaking a sleeve of her dull, threadbare dress and ruffling her short hair. "I really like your new clothes, Athelwynne. And your hair. Very nice." Bjorn eyes him, so Athelwynne forces herself not to respond.

Lagertha stands next to her son. "Is he prepared to offer us a hostage?"

Seeing her there helps Athelwynne focus on what she has to say, and to ignore Floki's mocking."Yes. He wants to reassure you in any way he can of his honest intentions."

"Then we will meet him," Lagertha says.

King Horik bristles. "Who are you to say?"

Lagertha raises her eyebrows at him and rests a carefully casual hand on Bjorn's shoulder. "You do not need to come. Ragnar and I will go. If Ecgbert means to kill us, so be it." She nods at Athelwynne and gives her a tiny smile.

King Horik stomps away, and Athelwynne lets her own smile show. "I will give him your answer."

"I will accompany you. Part of the way," says a voice suddenly at her elbow. Ice blue eyes meet Athelwynne's, the eyes she's been aching to see since she awoke among the nuns, her body bright with pain.

Ragnar walks toward the small wood with her, putting himself between her and the camp. "It is good to see you. I feared that you were dead." He rests an arm across her shoulders, and Athelwynne can't hold back her smile. He raises an eyebrow at the gold cross around her neck. "So you have returned to your faith? Renounced ours?"

She looks down at the cross and sighs. The little piece of treasure isn't only a symbol of God's love and Jesus's sacrifice; it is also a heavy collar, a reminder of King Ecgbert's claim on her. "It isn't that simple. In the gentle fall of rain from heaven I hear my God, but in the thunder I hear Thor. Both are so alive and real for me. Both give me strength and comfort."

Ragnar eyes her keenly, but seems pleased with her answer. "I hope that someday our gods can become friends." The trees surround them, and a bird sings in the quiet of the little wood. Ragnar looks about them sharply, then turns back to her. "I have something to give you." He pulls an axe from his belt and places it in her hands. "You should have a weapon if you need it."

Athelwynne smiles, touched, but presses it back into Ragnar's hands. "I can't accept this. They'll only take it from me and accuse me of treason."

"But if you must defend yourself—"

"I have defended myself many times since coming to King Ecgbert's villa. And if I need a weapon, there are many to hand that no one will suspect a woman of taking."

Ragnar grins, as though he is proud. "You are safe to go now. But I will see you very soon."

— 

Ragnar, Lagertha, King Horik, and all their people have come and gone. Seeing them in King Ecgbert's villa, sitting with them at the king's table, translating between them all to the best of her ability, had been disorienting in the extreme. Athelwynne tips her head back to look up at the sky. It's the same sky as ever, even after everything that's happened.

Athelwynne looks over when she hears a sigh from Ealswith. The book sits forgotten on her lap, and she gazes off across the courtyard and through the gate at the green fields beyond it.

"Ealswith?" It's a lovely day and Athelwynne can see why her student might be distracted, and is willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. "Do you need help with a word?" She asks with a teasing smile.

Ealswith looks over at her and frowns. "No." She looks terribly unhappy about something, and Athelwynne can't imagine what. Ealswith looks back down at her page and sighs again.

"What is it, then? Is the empty road more interesting than the story of Judith?"

"You tell me," Ealswith says, and Athelwynne blinks. "I know what you're going to do."

"What?"

"You're going to leave," Ealswith whispers sharply. "I've seen you with the king; you don't like how he treats you. And I saw you with the Northmen yesterday. You looked happy." It sounds like an accusation. "I don't understand. They murdered your sisters; how could you want to go back to them?"

Athelwynne puts her own book aside. "Do you really want to understand, or do you just want to be angry about it?"

Ealswith deflates a little, and closes the book on her lap. "I do want to understand. I thought we were friends."

"We are," Athelwynne says, taking Ealswith's hand. "But it's been made clear to me that I don't fit in this world anymore—"

"Of course you do, you're as English as I am! You belong with your people."

"I'm not as English as I once was. And you're right about King Ecgbert. He values my knowledge of the Northmen, but once the Northmen leave, where does that put me? The nuns certainly don't want me, and there are very few people here who want anything to do with me. I have to look after myself, because I know no one else here will."

Ealswith seems to accept that, but pulls her hand out of Athelwynne's. "And you were happy in the North. With the raiders and killers."

"They aren't all killers," Athelwynne says. "I lived with a family. They had a farm. Life could be difficult and frightening sometimes, but I grew to love it there. I felt as though I had awoken after a long sleep."

"You were a slave."

"I was, but I was also lucky. The man who owned me did not mistreat me. Not long after he brought me here, I helped him in—" Athelwynne's voice sticks on the word _battle,_ for she knows Ealswith will not understand— "And he freed me and made me a part of his family." She isn't sure how to explain herself to Ealswith, or even if she should try. Perhaps sticking to the bare facts is best. "Despite being a slave, I had a freedom there that I could never have here. In Wessex, I feel stifled and hunted, as though one misstep will be the excuse someone needs to—" She turns her hands palm up, so Ealswith can see the scars and tender new skin. "I'm not safe here."

Ealswith looks at the scars. "You're not safe there, either," she says shakily.

"No, but at least I can protect myself," Athelwynne says. She tries to recall how the weight of a shield feels on her arm.

"Is it really so bad here?" Ealswith no longer looks accusatory and bitter; she just looks sad.

Athelwynne takes Ealswith's hand again. "You are the one bright spot," she says. "When I remember this time, I'll remember that it wasn't all hardship."

"You really are leaving."

"Yes."

"And I'll be alone."

"You'll have the sisters," Athelwynne says, though in the privacy of her mind she does worry for Ealswith. The best place for her is with the nuns, and Athelwynne hopes they will help her realize her strength. A weak-willed woman would not have left her husband in search of justice, nor would she have defended herself before a king, nor asked to learn to read. "You will be fine."

"I will miss you."

"And I you," Athelwynne says. And she means it. Without Ealswith's friendship, Athelwynne would have been utterly alone. She wonders what she would have done without her. The only other person to treat her with any sort of decency had been King Ecgbert, and she doesn't want to imagine what might have been if he had been her only means of support in this place. "I am glad I met you." Athelwynne smiles, and Ealswith sniffles a bit but smiles back. "Now, how can Judith triumph over Holofernes unless you read it to me?"

— 

Athelwynne pictures the little gold cross in her mind, laying on the writing desk, safe and waiting for King Ecgbert to find it. Æthelwulf shoots her a venomous glare as the English party leaves the camp. She follows him with her eyes until they ride away into the trees. She wonders what the prince will tell his father. She had insisted as much as she dared on joining Æthelwulf's company as an interpreter when they returned Rollo, and now she stands in clear defiance of Prince Æthelwulf's orders, of King Ecgbert's desires. It frightens her a little, but it is also exhilarating.

"Priestess!" Bjorn lifts her clear off the ground in a bear hug, and Athelwynne yelps and kicks her feet. "We have missed you!" He presses a smacking kiss to her cheek and spins her around.

"Bjorn, put her down, it's my turn!" Bjorn laughs and sets Athelwynne on the ground, and she finds herself with two armsful of Gyda. She kisses Athelwynne's cheeks and nose and forehead, and Athelwynne is surprised to be laughing. Gyda is taller than Athelwynne— which is silly to wonder at, of course Gyda has grown so tall that Athelwynne has to look up at her— but it makes her realize how long it's been. "Are you really coming home with us?"

"Yes, I am," Athelwynne says, and suddenly it's real. She's leaving Wessex, and going home. She's escaped from all the cages.

The children— and Athelwynne can't help but think of them as the children though they are both grown— pin her between them as though they can't bear to let her go, and Athelwynne is sure that if she doesn't manage an escape soon, they will talk her ears off. She finds she doesn't mind at all.

She looks up and sees Lagertha watching them and grinning quietly. She grins back, happy for the first time in a long while.

As the boat slides downriver, Athelwynne clutches Gyda's hand in anticipation, and can't keep the excited grin off her face. Gyda laughs at her, and Athelwynne laughs too. She takes in the trees, the fields, the green lands she was born in, and feels no regret. Wessex wasn't her home anyway, and she never intends to return.

"England has made you more free with your kisses," says Ragnar, smirking at her elbow and nudging Gyda away. Gyda raises her eyebrows and joins a knot of Lagertha's shieldmaidens in the bow of the ship.

"What!" Athelwynne hasn't missed the way Ragnar can raise a blush to her face.

"I saw you, in the camp, saying a rather enthusiastic hello to my children," Ragnar says. The smirk stays firmly on his face. "I think I would like to thank whoever caused this change."

"Or perhaps I was simply happy to see them after five years," Athelwynne says with mock exasperation.

"Are you not happy to see me?" Ragnar attempts a pout, but the corners of the grin remain.

"Of course I am," Athelwynne says, and doesn't draw away when Ragnar pulls her against his side in a one-armed hug. She even lets herself lean against him, just a little, and smiles when his arm squeezes her shoulders. Her years in the North accustomed her to being touched, and she has missed it. "Why, do you want a kiss too?" She asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Ragnar looks down at her in mild surprise. "Are you offering?"

"No," she says, and laughs when he does.

— 

Aslaug is generous enough to appear pleased to see Athelwynne, and the boys almost knock her down in their delight. The town still bears scars from Jarl Borg's occupation, and she listens to Aslaug's stories with little Ivar wriggling in her lap. A drunken Torstein insists upon a dance, and Lagertha and Gunnhild laugh loudly together across the crowded hall. Siggy welcomes her home in her own quiet way before leaving to tend to Rollo, and Helga introduces her to Angrboða. The only blot on the night is Floki, spitting at her feet. She tries not to let it bother her.

Settling back into her old life is not so much difficult as it is simply not possible. She is no longer a slave, and so no longer has endless chores and duties to fill her days. Neither does she feel comfortable being social with the warriors, drinking and playing their inane games to pass the time. Often she finds herself in the hall with the other women, spinning and working at the looms or looking after Ivar to let poor Aslaug have a rest. She looks pale and exhausted and drawn tight as a bowstring, and Athelwynne is only too glad to take the wailing infant and give her some peace.

Ragnar is no help. He gives her no direction, no purpose other than to look after his children and be his companion. He urges her over and over to tell the story of her experiences as Ecgbert's captive, but Athelwynne refuses each time, unwilling to speak about her time in Wessex to anyone, especially strangers. She would tell Ragnar, but she can never get him alone.

At least as a slave she was useful. She dislikes being idle, but she does not wish to put aside her axe for an apron, either. The thought of marriage makes her unsettled, though she does not know why. She finds herself troubled by the future. What is to become of her?

Helga grins like a girl in her pale dress as she walks down the dock toward the barge. Athelwynne sets a wreath of late summer flowers in her long blonde hair, and kisses her on her pink cheeks. Helga pulls a purple flower from the wreath and tucks it behind Athelwynne's ear. She holds the wreath with one hand and grabs Athelwynne's hand with her other one to steady herself as she steps onto the barge. Athelwynne's scar protests at Helga's grip, but only a little, and her face is clear when Helga looks back.

"I wish you could be there."

"I wish that too."

The women push the barge away from the dock, and it slides smoothly down the fjord. Athelwynne stands alone on the dock. It seems like most of the town has emptied out for Helga and Floki's wedding. At least she was able to see how beautiful and happy Helga is. Athelwynne watches the barge until it disappears around the bend in the fjord.

"Athelwynne." She turns around. Ragnar stands at the other end of the dock, looking grave. "I need to speak with you."

— 

The streets are dark and eerily silent, and Athelwynne walks them slowly and just as silently, not knowing what or who she may meet around any corner. The hair on her arms is raised, and the awful feeling that a horrible thing is happening will not shake from her mind.

She hears a soft noise behind her and she spins on her toes, reaching for her hip where an axe ought to be but isn't, but Floki already has her by the wrist and he yanks her into an empty house.

"Priestess," he whispers. There is none of his usual wicked trickery on his face; he is as solemn as a stone.

"What do you want?" Athelwynne whispers as well, unwilling to break the quiet.

Floki takes the hand he has trapped and turns the palm up. He smacks the handle of an axe into it and curls her fingers around the leather grip. "You must be ready. The fighting has already begun." Now? Athelwynne's eyes widen. "Horik's men will not hesitate to kill you, but undoubtedly they will try to rape you first." The glee Athelwynne expects to see on Floki's face at such a statement is absent. "Either hide yourself well, or fight them like you would your Satan." He turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. "And _never_ walk about unarmed!" He hisses the last, frustration the first emotion he's shown.

He disappears into the shadows, and Athelwynne pokes her head around the doorframe. She sees torchlight coming from one end of the street, ducks back behind the door, grips the axe, and breathes hard. She has not fought in months! She thanks God Floki warned her and gave her some means of defense, but she is not yet fully recovered from her injuries, and she is out of practice from the months spent with King Ecgbert.

King Ecgbert. The flames that had cooled upon seeing the shores of Scandinavia grow within her once more. She lets her bitterness and resentment swell, and it combines with her anger at King Horik's betrayal and everything it led to, her hurt that came with the loss of Floki's friendship, and her whirl of confusion and heartache at Ragnar's actions toward her since she has been home. She lets it all well up inside her like thunderclouds, dark and boiling and shot through with sharp sadness. She mutters a speedy Our Father just as Horik's men approach, and steps out to meet her fate.

— 

Athelwynne slips through the shadows, desperate to get to the hall but unwilling to confront any more of Horik's men. Her hands ache so that she can barely hold the axe, and her breath shudders in her lungs.

They were not clean kills. She _is_ out of practice. Her face and clothing is spattered with the blood of two men who died horribly. It shames her.

She approaches the hall from the rear, listening intently for sounds of fighting, of her friends dying at the hands of traitors. She hears nothing, then a voice. Ragnar's voice. Merely speaking, not howling in berserker rage, so she enters the hall silently, hoping to find out what is happening before having to fight again.

When she peeks into the main hall, Ragnar stands before a defeated and kneeling King Horik. A few of his men lie dead in the main entrance, and his wife and daughters are nowhere to be seen. His son Erlendur stands apart, under a guard. Athelwynne can see Bjorn, Torstein, Gyda, Siggy, Floki, and Lagertha, and she lets out a sigh of relief. Heads whip around at the sound, and Athelwynne steps fully into view, letting the axe fall from her aching fingers and raising her empty hands. "It's me. Athelwynne."

She sees Ragnar's mouth quirk upwards, and then finds herself caught in Lagertha's strong arms. "I am pleased to see you alive, priestess." Athelwynne smiles, and Lagertha lets her go. "Pick up your axe; there is still work to be done here."

The others have surrounded Horik, weapons in their hands. "Is he to die?" Athelwynne whispers.

"Yes," Lagertha says. "For plotting against his ally, for attacking the hall where he is a guest. For his entire treacherous life." Athelwynne rubs the axe handle between her palms. "You are not required to take part," Lagertha says.

"No," Athelwynne says, almost surprising herself. Almost. "I have reason to."

"You do," Lagertha agrees, and they take their places among the others. The men are allowed one blow each, and they all strike at Horik with axes and knives; they all make sure he bleeds. He sways on his knees, but does not fall, does not make a sound. When Athelwynne's turn comes, she looks down at him. He looks up at her, and sneers in recognition. The flames leap within Athelwynne's chest again, and she flips the axe in her hand so she holds it near to the blade. Horik narrows his eyes, not understanding what she intends. She lashes out, sudden as a snake, and strikes Horik across the jaw with the axe handle. The blow forces him to one side, and as he rights himself, he spits blood and a few teeth at Athelwynne's feet.

The killing blow is, of course, Ragnar's, and Lagertha's warm hand on Athelwynne's back steers her to the back of the hall as Ragnar takes his rage out on Horik's body.

"Were you hurt?"

"No, I'm fine." Lagertha raises an eyebrow and looks at Athelwynne's hands, which are shaking. "Just… my hands ache. It's nothing."

Lagertha takes one of Athelwynne's hands between both of her own, and carefully traces the round scar. The warmth from Lagertha's hands helps soothe the ache. "You will tell me all that happened to you in Wessex." It's not a request, but Athelwynne feels the knot in her chest loosen at the thought of someone she trusts listening willingly.

— 

Athelwynne sees Floki sitting at the end of the dock, feet dangling into the water, alone. The hall is warm and loud and full of Ragnar's people and Lagertha's as well, and it's stifling. Athelwynne slips out into the night and walks down the dock, letting her steps shake the old boards, announcing herself. She sits down next to Floki, close but not touching. He doesn't get up and leave, or even move, so she figures he'll tolerate some words.

"You certainly played a long game."

"Yes," he says, staring out where the fjord bends around and disappears.

"You had me well fooled."

"Yes."

"Your daughter is beautiful."

"Yes."

"Are you going to agree with everything I say now? That's a frightening change."

The corners of Floki's black-rimmed eyes crinkle as he smirks. "And what about you, Christian? I thought you might have stayed in your England with your blackbird sisters."

"I… I almost wanted to. But King Ecgbert used me, like he would a quill or an axe, and I missed my family— it wasn't the same." Athelwynne pauses, but Floki doesn't interrupt. "I'm not the same person I was. I'm not Sister Athelwynne anymore," she says. "I haven't been for a long time."

"If you are not Sister Athelwynne, then who are you?"

It's a fair question. "Just Athelwynne, I think." She looks out at the moon's rippling reflection on the water. "Is that not enough?"

Floki nods once or twice. "For now."

They sit in silence for a while, but Floki should be used to Athelwynne's questions after all this time, so she speaks up again.

"You despised me. Was that an act, or is it real?"

"It was… mostly an act, I suppose."

"Mostly?" She doesn't even bother to hide her incredulity.

"I had to convince Horik."

"I realize that now, but—"

"I am a grumpy old troll, priestess. I do not like how the world changes around me."

"I cannot— I _will_ not abandon my God for yours. But I can't do the opposite, either. Your gods and my God live next to each other in my heart. It's strange, but it's true. And honestly, I don't care what you think of me anymore, so—"

"You should hold to your faith. I could not be servant to two such different masters, but I respect that you can do it."

"Really. Because you never seemed to."

"It gives you comfort. You and I are more alike than you think."

Athelwynne starts to laugh, but stops when Floki does not even smile. "Maybe. But are we friends, Floki?"

"Is it so important to you?"

"I had your friendship once, or at least I thought I did. It would mean a great deal to me to have it again."

"I could desire that."

—

"I will miss Lagertha and Gyda when they return to Hedeby."

"Who says you have to?" Ragnar sits on a bench in the hall, letting Ubbe and Hvitserk climb him like squirrels in an ash tree. Athelwynne faces him, sitting on the steps leading up to the earl's chair.

"They must go back; Lagertha has responsibilities as Earl Ingstadt." Athelwynne sighs at Ragnar's knowing smirk. "And of course I will miss them, what sort of person would I be if I didn't?"

"It's true, they will leave sooner than later," Ragnar says, letting the smirk drop away. He twists his mouth up, as if not wanting to say what needs to be said. "You could go with them."

"I— what?"

Ragnar untangles the boys and sends them off running after Bjorn. "Have you forgotten already, mouse? In the forest, in Wessex?" Ragnar nods at the axe dangling from Athelwynne's belt. "I made you a free woman. Your life is your own."

Athelwynne looks down at the axe as if seeing it for the first time. She had not forgotten that moment in the forest, but had not truly grasped all the implications of it, either.

Ragnar continues speaking, as if Athelwynne had not just had a near epiphany. "I would miss you terribly, of course, you and your endless questions and your funny Christian ways."

Athelwynne stops him with a hand on his knee. "Remember how you hated it when I stayed behind in Wessex. If you wish me to remain here, I will."

"Just as it wasn't then, it's not my decision," Ragnar says. "You must do as you think is best for yourself."

"I will think about it," she says, hoping that will be the end of it.

"Think quickly," Ragnar says. "They will be leaving soon."

Some days later, Athelwynne watches as Lagertha and her warriors prepare to leave. She still feels torn in her heart; she has not been able to choose Ragnar or Lagertha. Kattegat or Hedeby. Familiarity or a new start. Family she has missed for months, or family she has missed for years. She does not ask God for guidance; she does not think He will have much to say.

Lagertha comes to stand next to her in the open doorway of the hall. The bodies of Horik's men have been removed and burnt, and the only trace of the traitor himself is a faint stain on the floorboards.

"So, priestess. We leave tomorrow. It saddens me to think of saying goodbye to you again."

Athelwynne bites her lip. Like a lightning bolt from the sky, her mind is made. "Do you recall how I wished to go with you when you left years ago?"

"It was my one regret that I did not steal you away with me, Ragnar be damned." Lagertha grins. "Though it seems you have flourished, despite my absence."

Athelwynne smiles, encouraged. "I am free, now. Free to make my own choices for myself."

"Yes, Ragnar told me."

Athelwynne looks Lagertha in the eye. Lagertha gives nothing away, neither inviting nor deterring. She is utterly neutral, and Athelwynne is somewhat glad of it: her choice will be completely her own. Her heart pounds.

"I would go with you this time."

"Yes?"

Athelwynne nods. "I would be honored to carry your colors and fight under your banner. If you would have me," she adds.

Lagertha's face breaks into a smile, and she gathers Athelwynne into her arms. "I would be honored to have you fight for me, to have you in my household." Athelwynne sighs in relief and embraces Lagertha back. "You will make a fine shieldmaiden, but I will value your companionship even more highly." Lagertha releases her, and winks mischievously. "And Gyda will be overjoyed. She has missed you very much."

Bjorn has chosen to stay in Kattegat with his father, so Athelwynne spends the evening with him and Ragnar, who has puffed up like a cockerel at the prospect of having his oldest son at his side again. She will miss them, and Aslaug and the young boys, but the more she thinks about it, the more she knows that Hedeby is where she belongs, with Lagertha and Gyda.

—

The first of the autumn winds blow wet and chill over the grey, brown, and green humps and hillocks dotting the plain. It carries rain, light enough to cause no problems but heavy enough to be annoying to the travelers. Hedeby crouches on the only rise for leagues around, darker grey houses surrounded by a wall black with weather and age. Athelwynne is more than ready for their journey to be done.

She brushes her fingers over the little braid woven close to her scalp, keeping her growing curls out of her eyes. Gyda had insisted on making it for her. She has been stuck to Athelwynne's side like sap to a tree for almost the entire journey, and, if Athelwynne is honest, has been far more of a comfort than a nuisance.

Before they had departed, Ragnar had returned her book, or what remained of it. The pages have fallen loose, and some are missing. The binding has worn away through use and then through neglect. Athelwynne thinks of the book, of how far it has traveled with her, from Lindisfarne over the sea to the northlands; and how it had been her only source of comfort in those early days at the farm, and then in Kattegat after Ragnar had become earl. Now the pages lie safe, wrapped in an oilcloth in her saddlebag.

It's all right, Athelwynne thinks. She will mend it.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is actually the end! And jfc this was a long time coming. I started this in October 2014 and only just finished it. I am a hideously slow writer and I am also very sorry. On the other hand, I get to post this on [#whanthataprilleday](https://twitter.com/hashtag/WhanthatAprilleDay16?src=hash), which is a delightful holiday in which one is encouraged to tweet, blog, write, sing, recite, converse, etc. in an ancient, antique, old, or even dead language. So that's fitting, I think. 
> 
> I'm using spellings that are more accurate than imdb chooses to be (I think this is where the character tag spellings come from?) because I am a pedantic asshole who hates the show's pronunciation of Eck-bert (in Old English, the 'cg' sounds more like a 'j/ch', so it's closer to 'Etch-bert'). Also pretty sure 'Cwenthryth' was never spelled with a K back in the day. I mentioned the pedantic asshole part, right?
> 
> I've stolen a bunch of dialogue wholesale from the show because I just can't make King Ecgbert or King Horik more disgusting and creepy than they already are.
> 
> I am also playing super fast and loose with Scandinavian slavery customs. So much for historical accuracy.
> 
> When Athelwynne has her vision of Mary, she quotes Wisdom 7:29.
> 
> The gold cross King Ecgbert gives Athelwynne looks something like [this](http://www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk/wp-content/themes/staffordshirehoard/scripts/timthumb.php?src=http://www.staffordshirehoard.org.uk/wp-content/uploads/2011/03/New-pectoral-cross1.jpg&h=350&w=475&zc=1) (pectoral cross from the Staffordshire Hoard).
> 
> Also, and this is the super important bit, _they never crucified people for apostasy_. Or for any reason. Crucifixion was _special_ because it was how Jesus died. They usually burned apostates. (It's like the show's writers never actually read Hogwarts, A History. Honestly, Ron.)


End file.
